


The Folly of Independence

by serdtse



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Cold War, Historical, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-04
Updated: 2016-07-04
Packaged: 2018-07-20 02:18:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7386715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/serdtse/pseuds/serdtse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's 1962, and after a stressful year, it's one of those rare birthdays America chooses to spend by himself. That's foiled when a certain Russian pays a surprise visit by breaking into his house. And his intentions for America, as you'd expect, are far from sweet. But this is the visit that may ultimately force America past what he saw in the fireworks and white-picket fence lore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Folly of Independence

**Author's Note:**

> vaguely important historical context to take into note: takes place in the time period between the Bay of Pigs invasion and the Cuban Missile Crisis.

The Folly of Independence  
You might’ve seen him. He shows up here at least once every decade to celebrate. And you, a stock character of white-picket fence lore, here every Fourth of July with your family, could’ve seen him again ten years later out in this park. He’s always another face in the crowd; blue-eyed, bespectacled, beaming at the fireworks. So when you spot him again, you may not have realized that this man hasn’t aged at all since the last time you’ve seen him. If you do realize, then it only holds you in mild curiosity. You aren’t compelled to intrude any further on the stranger’s identity.  
You don’t know it, but it’s actually his birthday he’s celebrating out on those nights. Birthdays are typically spent throwing a huge party for himself, but occasionally he’d be here spending it with what he’d consider the essence of America. Yes, that includes you, you beautiful, hardworking middle class citizen; a necessary cog in the clockwork that keeps the liberal democratic world that is the United States spinning. He also gets tired when he’s around with his friends too much. He’s an extroverted young man, but like everyone, he has his limits.  
Might you have remembered seeing him that night in 1962? The summer air was heavy with mirth, the blur of conversations, the scent of beer and barbecue. Your neighbourhood was clustered in families like your own, parked in lawn chairs and picnic blankets, and in their hands waved the eponymous flags of the song they chanted. Excitement as normal. There you would’ve seen him beaming up at the fire-lit sky. He was especially tired and worn out that particular night, but happy to be celebrating another year of independence.  
As you followed the crowd as they dissipated back to their homes after the fireworks ended. He had himself a can of lager, and left the park. He went back to his small, unspectacular house, the one he prided on because he considered his humility one of his prized qualities. He shut the door behind him, locked it, and turned the lights on the plainly decorated interior. Hungry, he made himself a bowl of cereal. He went to the couch and turned on the TV. The volume was low. Black and white pictures flickered on the square screen.  
He heard a noise in the upper level of the house. Not one made by a wayward small creature. It had to be a person up there.  
He set his bowl to the side, clicked the television off. His hands twitched. He pictured every available weapon in the house. On impulse, he chose the pistol hidden in the drawer of the table underneath the TV over the rifle in the foyer closet, before creeping upstairs.  
“Hello?” he called, standing in the hall. You’d laugh at how much he’s sweating, but he couldn’t help it. It's easy to get nervous when you're at home alone at night, isn't it? Especially when he considered the fact that the intruder could very well be a ghost, which was probably the only weakness he’d admit to having. He flicked the lights on. Then the door of his bathroom opened, and he yelped as a large figure emerged. His finger jerked near the trigger of the firearm, but didn’t shoot.  
“Shit,” he muttered under his breath, in shock at seeing Russia standing before him, his arms raised in surrender and looking disoriented. He recomposed himself quickly, gripping the pistol tighter. “What the hell are you doing here?”  
“Just came to say hello,” Russia said, offering an uncertain smile.  
America was sure that archenemies didn’t just sneak into each others’ countries uninvited, break into each others’ houses on their birthdays, and lurk around in the dark, just to say hello.  
Russia eyed the firearm. “Please, put that down.”  
“Okay. I don't need to know what you're doing here. Just leave.”  
“Yes, yes. I will. You don’t think I want to be here, do you? I need a moment with you. That’s all.”  
“You couldn’t have arranged something any other way? Come on, man. It’s not like entering the country without me knowing was an easy task for you, I’d bet.”  
Russia shrugged. “Oh, America. It’s your birthday! I wanted to surprise you… but you discovered me before I could mobilize.”  
America raised a brow. “Really?”  
Russia’s smile was innocuous enough. America knew the man well enough by this point to know that this surprise likely wasn’t intended to be the good kind. Since when were any of the communists’ intentions for America good?  
“Are you so in love with violence that you will keep that pointed to an unarmed individual while he’s trying to speak to you?” asked Russia.  
“Unarmed?”  
“I can’t show you if you keep doing that.”  
“Oh, for fuck’s sake. You know I can’t trust you. And I’m not in love with violence, asshole, you broke into my house.”  
Russia was went silent, his eyes contemptuous behind his smile as he regarded America. Then he said, “This is a nice place. Much bigger than mine.”  
“Thanks buddy. But you should leave.”  
“I shouldn’t.” He paused again.  
“What?” America coaxed.  
“I can still surprise you.”  
In a swift movement, he had his hand wrapped around the muzzle of the gun. Before America could react, Russia pried it away and pointed it back at him. Then, he removed the magazine, and discarded the pistol. He clenched the magazine in his hand, before putting it away in the pocket of his jacket.  
“I apologize for the intrusion. I admit, it was rather rude. But it was the best way to meet you.”  
“You just want to piss me off, don’t you?”  
“Well,” said Russia, folding his hands behind his back. “I can’t say this is my favourite holiday, now that I’m experiencing it. But I suppose I rather enjoy what it stands for. It’s symbolic, right? Today is the day you broke free from a tyrannical rule.”  
“Yeah. It was one of the few revolutions in history that succeeded.”  
“You celebrate it so dearly.”  
“Sure.”  
“Lovers of revolutions, aren’t we?”  
America's eyes met his gaze, and remembered that other revolution that felt as though it had happened much longer than the almost fifty years ago that it happened. The memory was almost out of reach, one he recalled to have been in a Siberian city, seeing this man's body bloodied from civil war. The revolution, the war. He recalled it was misery that had been responsible for creating the unreachable monster standing before him.  
“For me, I prefer the ones that actually work,” America said.  
Russia chuckled. “They work in different ways for different people.” Moving deliberately, Russia took a step forward, and reached for America. You wouldn’t expect for him to let Russia move into his space, touch him, and take his hand. But America stunned himself in his compliance. He glared at Russia.  
“But we aren’t going to admit that we’re different, are we?” the Russian asked.  
“Why not? We clearly are.”  
“Yes. It may seem so. Tell me, what is freedom to you?”  
America huffed at the unexpected question. “The greatest right a man could ever enjoy. The most basic necessity for humankind. It’s something a commie like yourself wouldn’t understand.” And god bless his patriotic heart for the gold star worthy explanation.  
“I see. So it’s true we’re different, because you think your freedom is great and to be celebrated. And I do not.”  
“Thank god you’re acknowledging our differences.” America smiled sardonically. “Frankly, I hate movies where the bad guy corners the hero and gives him a lecture on how they’re the same deep inside. It’s a bit of a cliché. Would hate to see you stoop that low.”  
But judging from the look on Russia’s face, you’d swear that he knows something America doesn’t. Once again, he made an abrupt change to the topic. “I’d like to congratulate you on your invasion in Cuba.”  
America went back to glowering at him. “No need to make your quips polite, Russia. We aren’t in front of any other people right now.”  
“I mean it sincerely. Your failure was more of a good thing for me than for you. I doubt you have a single ally in your hemisphere now.”  
“Too bad for them. I’m the one with the nukes.”  
“You raise a good point. You know, I do care for our island friend.”  
“You’re talking about Cuba?”  
“Da, he told me he feels threatened by you. How uncouth of you to be picking on nations smaller than you.”  
America snorted. “I don’t need to be hearing that from you.”  
“Ah. We do what we must to... ‘extend hegemony’.” He hummed in thought. “All you wanted to do was spread this democracy of yours, hm?”  
“What can I say? There’s nothing I want more.”  
“Like you said, America. We aren’t in front of any other people. You shouldn’t feel there’s a need to keep up this freedom loving act of yours.”  
“It’s not an act!” America was appalled.  
“That’s what you think.” Russia reached into his pocket and pulled out a small pistol. America gasped.  
“You lied!” he said, though he was not truly surprised. He recognized the gun as the one he kept in his bedside table. Of course the dirty Russian would’ve found it there previously, who doesn’t keep a gun there? America cooled himself down. “You aren’t going to shoot me. You know the shit you’d be in when they’d find you?”  
Russia’s smile was gone, the coldness of his gaze now fully apparent. He moved into America’s space again, pressing the muzzle to his temple.  
“I want to try something. Don’t move,” he muttered, his tone dropping considerately. He removed America’s glasses, and let them drop to the ground. Of course Russia wouldn’t shoot him, so there was no need to be intimidated, or be compliant yet again. But America found himself focusing on trying to suppress his trembling, hoping that the Russian couldn’t sense the rapidness that his heartrate had accelerated to. And what an irony it was. Out there in the sunshine, America would remove his everyman’s glasses in times of crisis and become the superhero that would save the day. He was the best version of himself without them, he thought. But there, having been backed up against the wall with the antagonist’s now uncovered hand on his cheek, thumb stroking the skin, he felt like the opposite of a hero.  
Still, he kept the serious façade, staring the enemy in the eye. He mentally cursed how Russia stood maybe more than an inch taller than him. Russia stared right back at him, but his gaze was softening somewhat.  
“What?” America said.  
“Tell me more about… being free.”  
With his own gun being pressed to his head? Russia really was a man of weird tastes, thought America. “If you want to know what it’s like, then… imagine being able to say what you want, have fun however you want, make as much money as you'd like, have… civil rights,” America said, pausing as the gun pressed harder against his skull. As he finished the sentence, the pistol was reaimed at his forehead. “Cut it out,” he said, having the force the words out through his weariness. He still was not acting, and the Russian's thumb pressed into the flesh of his cheek.  
“I want you to do as I say,” said Russia. He was testing waters.  
A hefty “fuck no” should’ve been appropriate from America’s part. But he did nothing. He found himself rendered frozen in place, heart hammering in his ears. It was enough to pass the Russian's test.  
“On your knees.” Russia motioned with the gun.  
And by god, America did it. He looked up at Russia, who was looking back with his eyes widened, perhaps as surprised as you’d be, because if America possessed any sense he would’ve at least protested. The two men were motionless for a moment. And then Russia grabbed a handful of short, blond hair.  
“You know what’s coming,” said Russia. “And you should feel honoured right now.”  
America said nothing, and Russia hesitated. His grip on America’s hair loosened, before letting it go completely.  
“But I’m not going to dirty myself with your mouth.”  
At last, America moved. He took Russia by the knees, sending the larger nation crashing down on his back. There was a gunshot—he actually dared to shoot!—but the bullet left no body grazed. They came up for each other with mad fists borne—they threw punches at each other, and America dodged Russia’s attempts in a wild haze. He gets Russia’s face a few times; his own takes some hits, including blows from that pistol in Russia’s grip. He was the first one to land back on the ground, tripping stupidly over his own feet, but he turned in time to dodge a final blow with the pistol that would’ve knocked him out for good. He was able to grab hold of the back of Russia’s skull, and send his head to the ground. The sound of the collision of the bone against the hardwood floor stills the fight. America holds him down with the strength of his arms, pries the firearm from his hand, and it doesn’t take long for Russia to stop resisting.  
“It was only a joke, Alfred,” the Russian said between gasps, his voice back to its default, light tone. “Get off of me.”  
“You have a shitty sense of humour, man.” After a moment, America got off, with nothing more to do to the Russian.  
Russia slowly got up to his feet, and America felt some pride well inside him as he saw the damage done to his enemy’s face. Not without feeling a modicum of guilt, too. He knew his face must be just as battered up.  
“You hit well,” Russia said, impressed. In any era before this cold one, America would’ve been glowing at such a comment. It wasn’t like that, now that he knew he could strangle even former empires-- even a former father figure-- with fear by simple shows of the brute strength he possessed. There he was with the only opponent he knew would match him in any kind of fight. His heart tremored from a stroke of the toxic thrill that thought gave him.  
“Now either apologize for starting this petty conflict, or admit that you would’ve loved to have sucked me off.”  
“Fuck you. Get out of my house; get out of my country. You’re not welcome, ever.”  
“Your heart’s with the latter, Mother Russia knows. But it was a joke! We have to have at least kissed before doing anything so sexual,” Russia said, teasing.  
“Get OUT!” America said, much too worn out to play along. “I’m sick of your jokes, your stupid voice, your ugly face—you goddamn sicko commie.”  
Russia brushed himself off, loosened his scarf and straightened his back. “I should. I’ve overstayed my visit.” He started downstairs, America following him.  
At the threshold, he turned to America once more. “I’ll be back for you,” he said, looking at America up and down. His moving gaze was raking, the desire to make claims on the smaller body shamelessly obvious. But the younger did not recoil in disgust. He only watched Russia, dully noting how the barely-there lighting gave the beaten, bloodied face the appearance of a painting of a garbled abstraction of a human. Never had somebody appeared so terrifyingly authoritative, thinks America, and fuck, hasn’t he ever thought he’d find it so attractive.  
“Okay then,” he whispers, the words coming out trancelike as he spoke them. A tick in his subconscious hinted that he was wishing for Ivan to utter another command. Or at least touch him again. But the Russian shuts the door behind himself without a warning. Alfred stood by the closed door, a mushrooming numbness in his brain preventing him from thinking of what to do next.

\---  
As an empathetic being, you wonder why the blond, bespectacled young man is all by himself, celebrating a holiday that you see everybody else spending with their family. But you sense no trace of sadness in his demeanour, so the thought of his solitude doesn’t bother you. His case is easy to dismiss.  
The day is always sunny somewhere in America, and there are no limits for this Alfred F. Jones. What a champ! This is a guy you should be proud of, just like you are of your own country.  
Even in the times he’s ashamed of himself. There are those instances when the sun doesn’t shine on him, those that you’d rather not hear. When he’s taken the hand of the taller man, who speaks commands in a thick, Russian accent. Your blood would curdle at the sight of it all. Alfred moved in subterfuges; this was no hero that writhed beneath the penumbra of Ivan’s commanding hands.  
Turn your back on him quick, before the shame of knowing gets to you. Their meetings in the darkness becomes a pleasure of the guilty sorts for Alfred. Would you believe that he wasn’t in it for just the sex? It wasn’t only the thrill that made him submit. It was for the hit of reality he desperately needed.

**Author's Note:**

> The first fanfic I've mustered the courage to post, since five years ago. Aw heck, I take this anime really seriously.  
> Happy birthday, Alfred. (sorry if you seem ooc in this fic.)  
> Just what is the folly of "independence"? Hm. I guess I wanted to ruminate on the appeal of totalitarianism by writing about a weird sexual desire Al had for our favourite (former) commie.


End file.
